


of terriers and angry spaniards

by blindbatalex



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Manchester City, Manchester United, Oops?, also totally crack this ship, and, anyway this pairing has really grown on me lord save my soul, because i am, but like very briefly - Freeform, come for kun's obliviousness to greek mythology, did i say im sorry yet, gratuitous angst, i apologize to both teams' fans, i've really outdone myself this time you guys, stay for the awkward flirting, they are flirting over stat concepts lord save my soul, unrequited crushes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-10-28 06:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10825512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex
Summary: When the Manchester derby doesn't produce goals it produces love, or at least ridiculous crack ships, which is basically the same thing.“'You were so angry…” Kun replies trying not to sound too dreamy. By the God above the man’s face is expressive and the contrast between his fury earlier and the softness of it now in the dying light... Kun shifts where he stands once again.Plays for the enemy,he reminds himself.United. Gross. Evil."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kolarov](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kolarov/gifts), [flamingosarepink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamingosarepink/gifts).



> On the one week anniversary of the Manchester derby where the man the myth the tree, Marouane Fellaini headbutted Kun, Kun went down a bit too _theatrically_ shall we say and Herrera was mad. My evidence here is scant because everyone seems more interested in the headbutt itself but if you look around [ 40th second](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RddATiogIMs) Ander is definitely taking Kun aside??? He was also definitely talking to Kun at the end of the game too. So. That, my inability to resist a good enemies to lovers trope and some excellent tumblr encouragement later here we are…
> 
> @ Kolarov, I promised you City crack and this is...not that but half of it is still City, right? That’s something.

It’s a bit of a blur what exactly happens after Fellaini tackles him to the ground. There is the way he hits the ground harder than he likes, the pain shooting up his leg, the flash of yellow, and he’s saying something to the Belgian idiot as he scrambles up, something like _who the fuck do you think you are_ or _back off_ and then he’s flying down to the ground again thanks to Fellaini’s thick and wide forehead.

Then again Manchester derbies are always bit of a blur for Kun whether they are playing in front of the deafening Old Trafford crowds or the…not _deafening_ but still loud ones at the Etihad. Every derby, Kun’s world narrows to a single aim from the moment the ref blows the starting whistle: to put the goal in the back of the net by any means necessary. To show the world what Kun has known since he stepped foot in this rainy city. 

That Manchester is as blue as the open skies on a summer morning.

This time though as he picks himself up still holding his forehead there is one thing that stands out from the blur, in the form of one small and angry Spaniard.

‘You fucking idiot,’ Herrera is saying, _yelling_ , not one but two veins popping up on his neck, ‘you diving cheating son of a bitch you threw yourself to the fucking ground twice at that too--

The man doesn’t seem to be affected by human constraints such as the need to breathe either. Just goes on spewing insult upon insult and spluttering Kun with spit in the process. ( _Gross_ ). 

\--do you have no shame it’s a fucking disgrace they let you play what the fuck is wrong with you--

From the corner of his eye Kun sees Fellaini march off the field in a huff. _Serves him right,_ he thinks, _the aggressive bastard with the football sense of a Christmas tree._ Ander turns to the referee and seamlessly switches from Spanish to English mid breath, the stream of shouting unbroken.

“No dive, no dive” Kun shouts to join the conversation because he too can speak English damnit, it’s not like it’s that big a deal.

Kun’s family had a dog when he was growing up, see. Nasty little thing. Wasn’t good for shit so she’d bark up a storm at the smallest occasion and drive Kun up the wall.

Herrera with his endless yapping reminds Kun of her.

Except.

Well Fifi was fucking ugly too with her coarse wiry fur and beady eyes. And Herrera. Well. He has that baby face going for him, a sweet smile (even if he’s far far from a smile right now—but Kun’s seen pictures and heard him laugh in the occasional David Silva dinner party, hasn't he?) He also looks ridiculous like this sure, as well as fucking annoying but there is perhaps something to be said of his passion. His righteous anger as though he’s Poseidon or Hades or whichever god it was and Kun just stole the fire.

Kun shakes his head as they get into position for the City free kick. He can’t afford to think about Herrera as the ruler of the seven seas with a stately beard and a trident when they have less than ten minutes to break this shit United side. They are running out of time.

He doesn’t pay much attention to Herrera after that, except to whizz past him a couple of times with the ball. The game doesn’t get any easier now that the Belgian buffoon is off, because, Kun thinks bitterly it’s not like he was doing much when he was on the field in the first place.

And yet they still pull up short. The referee blows the final whistle and Kun murmurs a curse under his breath. ‘You fucking go die in a fire,’ Herrera shouts as he walks past.

‘Likewise you bastard!’ Kun answers. He is too tired and too frustrated to even think about the irony of what Herrera has just said.

*

He is in the middle of a weird-ass dream when the ringing of the doorbell wakes him with a start. One minute Herrera is on top of him, Kun’s hand stroking the floppy, furry gray ears that jut out of his brown hair as he licks a trail down Kun’s neck and then looking up, barks at Kun. And in the next he is sitting up on his sofa, groggy and alone in the living room that’s grown dark.

Kun shakes his head and files his dream under the never to think of again category. Some imagination he has. He also hopes his erection isn’t too visible under his shorts or better yet that whoever has come to pay him an impromptu visit gives up and leaves. 

The doorbell rings again, shrill and insistent and rules out the latter scenario.

He gets up with a huff. If Kolarov has run out of shampoo again, so help him God. How can a bald man use such staggering amounts of shampoo really, enough to put even Ronaldo to shame? And even if he does for some unfathomable reason why, why would he come to Kun’s house every time at night and say ‘Shampoo. Please.’ with that perpetual scowl of his? 

Since Kun doesn’t speak English he can’t tell him to fuck off and well, he dares not close the door on Aleksandar bloody Kolarov’s face either so each time he has to smile and go fetch some shampoo like a good dog (okay this dog analogy is really getting out of hand now. Like a good teammate. There. He has to go fetch shampoo like a good teammate because that’s what teammates do for one another.)

“Shampoo?” he says in English automatically as he opens the door.

“I-- Shampoo?” Herrera repeats, sounding somewhere between offended and very confused, scrunching up his face. 

Herrera. 

Fuck.

Maybe it’s the dream speaking but the man looks devastating in the twilight in his tight-fitting gray shirt and ripped jeans. Kun shifts where he stands to an angle that will draw as little attention to his crotch as possible. He aims for suave and nonchalant.

“Sorry. I thought you were Kolarov. He keeps asking me for shampoo and it’s very bothersome really he came three times this week once when I’d just settled in for a nice bath with a glass of wine. I had to come out all soapy and it ruined my bathrobe.”

Wow. That was as close to suave and nonchalant as United are to being relevant. Sleepy and ambushed as he is it’s a new low even for Kun.

Herrera cocks an eyebrow and deadpans. “Why would a bald man need so much shampoo?”

“That is exactly what I’ve been saying! I asked Leo and even Antonella doesn’t go through that much shampoo in a week. You are friends with David aren’t you? Can you make him teach me how to say--”

Kun stops before he can embarrass himself further. Whatever this United man came to talk about it’s not the correlation between hair length and shampoo consumption.

_There, that sounded very smart. The pop Economics book he’s reading is clearly doing it’s job. He didn’t say it out loud, but still._

“What,” he continues, doing a better approximation of casual and suave than before, “what brings you here?”

“Ah.” Herrera scratches his head (that is thankfully free of dog ears.) “I, uh I was a little too harsh on the field towards you earlier.”

“You were so angry…” Kun replies trying not to sound too dreamy. By the God above the man’s face is expressive and the contrast between his fury earlier and the softness of it now in the dying light... Kun shifts where he stands once again.

 _Plays for the enemy,_ he reminds himself. _United. Gross. Evil._

“God knows you lot drive me up the wall with your antics, but.” Herrera looks away. “I--when I told you to go die in a fire I didn’t really mean it, you know?”

“Yeah, I didn’t mean it either,” Kun mumbles quickly, examining his tiles.

“Sorry,” Herrera says, “I have this thing against cursing people. What if you actually died in a fire, you know? Didn’t mean to disturb your evening.” He offers Kun his hand and a half smile, reserved, almost melancholy.

“Oh no I had passed out on my couch like an old man. Would have probably slept there the entire night too if you hadn’t woken me. It’s always hard to get a decent night’s sleep before games and it is such a burden on the nerves too, the derbies. Man my shoulders would have been all sore in the morning.”

He can hear bells going tmi! tmi! in the distance. What is it with him and oversharing tonight? Normally he is Sergio Kun Aguero, the sweetheart of ladies, the charmer of men and not this blabbering idiot.

Herrera chuckles, a warm, pleasant sound. “Dude,” he says with a grin, “Juan makes so much fun of me for passing out on well _his_ couch whenever we play at home. But it’s so normal isn’t it? Let’s see what he’ll have to say now.”

“Well,” Kun answers, basking in the glow of Herrera’s laughter, “your sample size is pretty small there and I’m not sure if I make a good data point as far as Mata is concerned.”

Herrera lets out a quick huff like he’s just realized Kun is City. “True that,” he says, half disappointed. They stand there for a moment, the burden of their club identities heavy between them, unsure what to do.

A cold wind blows, rustling the trees. Ander hugs himself and winces. 

Kun realizes with something akin to horror that they have been standing at his door, Kun mostly in the warmth of the house Herrera fully exposed outside on the steps for a while now. The man isn’t even wearing a jacket for fuck’s sake and it’s Manchester. Temperature drops like Arsenal from the top four once it gets dark, spring or not.

“You are cold,” he says, very observantly.

“A little, a little.” Herrera deflects it with a shrug but hugs himself tighter. “I should go.” 

“Or,” Kun says, still not back to his suave best, but getting there “I could make you tea.” 

Ander doesn’t even wait until he finishes his sentences and dashes inside past Kun with a “yeah, I’d like that very much.”

Kun hopes it’s less because he is trying to escape the bitter cold and more because he is just that eager to come in.

Either way, as Herrera is about to find out Kun makes _excellent_ tea.


	2. of foolish men and porridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Kun cuts up a strawberry as he stirs the porridge with his other hand. He’s left Herrera sound asleep but he would like breakfast to be ready when the man inevitably comes downstairs. Kun doesn’t make breakfast for his one night stands. He offers them his state-of-the-art shower, tells them what a lovely time he had and then sends them on their way with a nice kiss. He has better uses for his time than making sure strangers he will never see again are properly fed.  
> But Herrera." OR the morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK WHO ROSE FROM THE DEAD to update this fic. I am sorry it took two millennia.

Kun cuts up a strawberry as he stirs the porridge with his other hand. He’s left Herrera sound asleep but he would like breakfast to be ready when the man inevitably comes downstairs.

Kun doesn’t make breakfast for his one night stands. He offers them his state-of-the-art shower, tells them what a lovely time he had and then sends them on their way with a nice kiss. He has better uses for his time than making sure strangers he will never see again are properly fed.

But Herrera. 

See, Kun woke up in the middle of the night to find the man sprawled over him, like a soft and warm blanket, an arm tight across his chest and a leg thrown across his torso. He lay there motionless in the dark, eyes on the ceiling and tried not to think of the last time someone threw themselves over him so completely, more than a decade ago now, with so much trust. Herrera sighed contently and settled even more on his chest when Kun sank a hand in his short hair. 

_Leo soft in his arms and oh so small. (When did he climb into Kun’s bed anyway?) Tomorrow,_ Nigeria _, the word less scary in the dark with Leo wrapped around Kun’s body, his head a solid weight against Kun’s chest._

Doesn’t count for much probably, but.

_Porridge?_ Kun thinks as he stirs the pot again, _what kind of a breakfast is porridge to offer to a guest?_

The sound of pattering feet on the stairs interrupt his thoughts. Herrera appears in the door a moment later, showered and ready to go by the looks of it. He stops when he sees the pot.

“Porridge?” he says happily, eyes widening with delight as he takes three quick steps to inspect the preparations. “Blueberries, blackberries, and oh God are those strawberries?”

Kun has never seen anyone get so excited over porridge. Anyone other than himself that is. It’s quite beautiful.

Herrera takes a quick step back. “I mean, not that I need breakfast. I’ll be on my way and you can eat in peace. See you, I guess.”

This ridiculous man. Does he have no sense of one night stand etiquette? Who cooks breakfast for himself before the other person is even out of the door? Nothing encourages a person you want to boot out to stay than the smell of freshly cooked breakfast.

Kun cocks an eyebrow to get across his point and hands Herrera a bowl. Herrera hesitates for a second but soon he is chucking his car keys on the table and making a beeline for the strawberries with glee. Kun chuckles at his enthusiasm.

They are quiet for a bit as they eat, as if the strangeness of what they are doing (a United man and a City forward sharing breakfast sounds like the beginning of a bad joke more than anything else) is just dawning on them. 

“Um,” Herrera says eventually playing with his food, “can we keep what happened...between us?”

He sounds so embarrassed, so unsure that Kun can’t help but laugh. “You mean I can’t call the Mail right now to announce my sexcapades with the United’s midfield maestro?” his hand is already teasing Herrera’s.

Herrera rolls his eyes. “Idiot. Not that.” The tips of Herrera’s ears are starting to turn red though Kun doesn’t know whether it’s from being called a midfield maestro or-- “I mean _that_ , obviously, but also that other thing.”

Oh that thing. That thing where Herrera came with a single word on his lips, pleading, desperate.

_Juan._

“He doesn’t--” Herrera continues, scrambling for words, “he isn’t--”

Kun cuts him off with a firm hand on his wrist. “Ander.” He makes a point to look Herrera straight in the eye, likes how the name rolls off his tongue. “I have no idea what you are talking about.” 

He understands really, understands a little too well for his liking. Herrera lets out a relieved sigh, offers Kun a quiet thank you and a half smile. 

“And maybe you aren’t the only one half-in love with his best friend.”

The spoon halfway to Herrera’s mouth. He stares at Kun slack mouthed, eyes wide as saucers. Kun stops too, reels back from what he just admitted to, the sheer power of his words just hitting him now. “I--”’ he starts. An essential stranger. A nobody and he’d lose everything if word got out. He’d lose Leo. His heart is suddenly beating in his ears.

Ander blinks after a second, coming back to himself. His chuckle, easy and genuine, breaks the tense silence, allows air to flow back into the room. “From what I can tell from last night I think they are the ones missing out, my friend.” He raises his coffee mug. “To great sex and porridge.”

Kun laughs then too, and there is something incredibly beautiful about Herrera right in that moment, the way the corners of his mouth nudge into a lovely if melancholy smile, the obstinate determination in his brown eyes. Gratitude washes over Kun and relief, it’s a secret for a secret but it’s not just that. Because here is someone who is amazing at bed and is ridiculously passionate about porridge and acknowledges him, laughs with him at what he carried on his shoulders for so long.

“To great sex and porridge,” Kun repeats, raises his own mug in return. It’s too early to tell, to dream, and the whole thing is mental, _a footballer_ his mind whispers over and over again, _a direct rival_ , but maybe, he thinks, _maybe_.

*

Herrera takes his hand just as Kun is about to see him out the door, guides him back to the kitchen counter and lays his arm there with Kun’s wrist facing him. The marble feels cold against Kun’s skin and Herrera is crowding his personal space, the gentle grip Herrera has on his arm already sending a shiver down his spine. (They can’t do this now though, not now, not when training calls. He should remind Herrera really or well, maybe just kiss him first since he is literally right there and Kun doesn’t know if he’ll be back.) 

He is leaning in to find Herrera’s lips when the other man ducks away and fishes out a pen from his pocket. “A pen?” Kun says, his brow furrowing, annoyed at the monumental lack of kissing, “who casually walks around with a pen in his pocket?” 

Herrera grins. “Shush.” He uncaps the pen and bring the tip to Kun’s inner arm.   
The first thing Herrera writes is a three. Random. “Speak of marking your partner?” Kun asks again but doesn’t move away, interested, delighted in seeing where this will go. So far Herrera has been full of surprises.

Herrera follows it up with a six, and then a two and then he is drawing a dash and--is that a phone number? 

“Here,” Herrera says with a delighted grin, before Kun’s had the time to process it. He rises up on his toes to give Kun a quick kiss before he heads to the door. “Have fun explaining to your teammates today why you have my number written on your arm!” and with that he’s gone. 

“You bastard,” Kun mutters after him but he is already reaching to his phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--The Argentina U20 team Nigeria in the final of the 2005 World Youth Championship in June 2005. Aguero and Messi both took part in the game and Messi scored both of Argentina's goals.
> 
> I am sorry about the gratuitous angst! I am sorry if you are a United or a City fan and you are mortally offended by this pairing, I don't get to decide how the shipping part of my mind works lol. Anyway I'd love to hear what you thought, and kudos are also always appreciated.


	3. david and juan, or if only one could turn back the time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juan and Dave find out about the dangers of poking around in other people's phones. Some images, once seen, can never be unseen.

They are lounging on Ander’s sofa as he gets dressed and David is a combination of extremely lazy and extremely bored as he follows the soap playing on the TV with one eye. Next to him Juan doesn’t seem to be faring any better. They will have to get up and leave eventually; there is an argument to be made that they should have left already and let Ander get ready in peace but that would involve a Herculean effort and energy that neither of them seem to possess. 

“You think Ander would let us stay here if we asked nicely?” David asks, poking at Juan. Juan considers, clearly aware of the strategy’s many potential benefits, such as not having to move their asses. “Yeah but what if he wants to bring his date home eh? What will he say? Here, never mind my friends and their Emmerdale marathon?”

Juan has a point. That doesn’t mean David is any happier about it. “Who is this date anyway?” he asks, half-whining half-yawning.

Usually, Ander is bit of an oversharer on this front. Every potential love interest they usually know every little horrible detail before he even goes on the date. This time around though, Ander’s been super cagey; he’s just been smiling like an idiot a lot (David once caught him looking at a rain-heavy sky and _grinning_ at it for fuck’s sake) and kicking them out of his house at night without explanation. Today too, he’s apparently ‘going out for drinks with a friend,’ and ‘a friend you wouldn’t know.’ 

“Dunno,” Juan answers, catching his yawn. “What if his date is an evil gay mastermind like Robert?”

David snorts. “Next thing you know they will be throwing your lifeless body off a cliff or the manager’s more like.” On the coffee table his phone buzzes. David locates it with his hand, eyes still on the TV.

The cursed thing buzzes again. David hates double texters. He slides the lock off with a huff. 

**should be criminal to miss a United player this much.**

and then--

**don’t be late.**

David sits upright. Puts the phone face down on his lap. “What?” Juan asks from next to him.

“Ander doesn’t have a lock on his phone. I think this is it. I think his date is texting him.”

Juan’s eyes widen. He sits up too with a sudden burst of energy, sidles close to David. “WHAT. SHOW ME DAVID.”

David shushes him, the offensive object is suddenly heavy and warm against his legs and the last thing they want is Ander to come barging downstairs thinking they are getting murdered. “I don’t know,” he says raising his eyebrows, “it’s an invasion of privacy kinda, isn’t it?” But inside he is dying too, the coveted knowledge so close to their fingertips.

“You opened it accidentally,” Juan counters. “Let’s read the rest of the texts accidentally too and then we will put it where we found from and apologize to Ander. Fair?”

David is weak. Too, too weak. Besides everyone says he’s like a cat, mostly due to his crazy saves, and you know what they say about curiosity and the cats.

They huddle together and unlock the phone once more. “Criminal to miss a United player this much?” Juan reads, “you think they are--what? A Liverpool fan? City? Is this why he hasn’t said a word?”

That certainly sounds plausible, and the fact that the contact is simply saved as _blue_ renders credibility to the latter team. David scrolls back up.

Blue: **dinner on wednesday? Im cooking ;)**

_yes but i have high standards just so you know_

Blue: **and yet you still play for united…**

_just hope your cooking is better than your team’s ability to win trophies mate. Dont wanna get food poisoning :)))_

Blue: **I am mortally offended >:( **

_And yet you are still dating me. <3 _

David stops. “Fuck,” he mutters, “he is totally dating a City fan.” 

“Our Ander,” Juan echoes. “They are like one step short from texting ily with heart eyes. I cannot believe. No wonder man, no wonder he didn’t tell us.”

See the thing about Ander is, out of the three of them he is the most passionate. David’s been living with one foot (or at least eye) in Madrid for the last few years anyway, and Juan is happy here sure but he loves football and getting minutes above and beyond anything else. Ander though. Ander shakes the entire bench when United scores, even when he knows he won’t get a minute on the pitch and David even once heard him sing _glory glory_ in his sleep. Ander is a secret Manc in heart at this point, more or less. David would think he’d have more stringent standards when it came to the fans of their direct rivals. 

“Do you think--” David starts but the phone buzzes in his hand again before he can finish.

Blue: **a preview of tonight. ;) ;)**

“Fuck” Juan says “oh fuck they are going to send a--’ the phone buzzes again, “--a picture!”

Before they can do anything, before they can put the phone down and carry about their lives in ignorant bliss the picture loads and--

David raises a hand to his mouth. The image has already burned to the back of his head, permanently seared there in his retina. He isn’t particularly religious, has never been, but he doesn’t know what a message from a higher power is if not this. A message that says there is justice in the

On the tiny phone screen Sergio Aguero is grinning up at them, wearing nothing but a cooking apron, one that reads _the best City! In the world_. There is a pot on the stove in the background, containing some kind of delicious stew. He is holding out a strawberry in his hand by the stem. Whipped cream garnishes the fruit at its tip. The bottle of whipped cream sits on the counter and Aguero is staring directly at the camera, a human version of the winky eyes emoji.

Juan turns off the TV. Their lives has turned into a real time soap opera suddenly and next to it Emmerdale feels flat. From upstairs they can already hear Ander whistling.

**Author's Note:**

> Voila, this fic is now complete! I might write the promised Kolarov/Dzeko angle as a tie-in but with the exchange not sure if I have the time lol. Comments and kudos are my life blood; if you read this entire thing for some reason do let me know what you thought :D
> 
> Also find me on [ tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/blindbatalex) where I always welcome prompts (just with no guarantee on their finish time lol) and cry over my idiot team 24/7. <3 <3 <3


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